


50 Shades of Barack Obama

by NasstyHobbitses



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c., politic
Genre: #BDSM #electionerections, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 13:17:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3730345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NasstyHobbitses/pseuds/NasstyHobbitses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>British Prime Minister, David Cameron, finds himself utterly at the mercy of the dominant and sophisticated President of the United States.</p>
            </blockquote>





	50 Shades of Barack Obama

David felt his pulse quicken and pulled at his suddenly tight collar. Hard at work in his office at 10 Downing Street, there was a limit as to who would be able call him on this telephone.

  
He shouldn’t answer it before three rings, he knew that. As he waited, he saw flashes in his mind’s eye: Barack’s intense dark eyes, his strong hands, the way his broad chest looked as he gave that rumbling laugh.

  
David snatched up the phone.

  
“Prime Minister,” said a deep, American voice. David swallowed.

  
“Mr President. Is – is everything all right?”

  
“In thirty minutes a car will stop outside 10 Downing Street. Get in.”

  
There was a beep on the other end and the buzz of the disconnected call. David placed the phone back on its cradle.

  
He tidied his pile of papers. He was going to see Barack. He put his pen away in the top drawer of the desk and then he tidied the papers again. Then he put those in the top drawer too. Thirty minutes, had he said?

What was he to do with himself for thirty minutes? David tucked in his shirt. Was he perhaps getting a bit flabby around the middle? He was in good shape from his cycling, but he was approaching fifty.

  
He looked around his empty office and pushed himself backwards in his chair, then shifted to perch on the edge of it. He put his hands on the arm rest and put his feet up on the desk and tried to lower himself, supporting his weight with his arms, and raise himself again, as he’d seen muscular men do on TV.

  
He was straining on the way back up when the door swung open. David froze.

  
“What on earth…?” began his wife, Samantha. 

  
David scrambled to sit back in his chair. The chair creaked. The more he tried to sit up, the more he scrambled. Finally, he sat up, adjusted his hair and took his pen back out of the drawer.

  
“Samantha?” he said politely, picking up his pen. She looked back at him.

  
“Oh, never mind,” she said, rolling her eyes and shutting the door. David looked at his watch and then out of the window.

 

 

The black car rolled up and a stocky, bald African-American opened the door for David. He got in, trying to pretend this was just another business trip – and that he had some idea where he might be going.

  
The last week had been a rollercoaster. He did not know what had changed, or how, but…it had been the best week of his life. And now, something told him that today was the day it would go even further.

  
It had started two weeks ago - small things at first; a comment here, a touch there. Then a week ago, Barack had made David wear a pair of frilly silk panties to Parliament. There was a naughty, embarrassed pleasure at the soft, smooth silk against his nether regions. David had felt on edge the whole time in case anyone saw, and yet there was such an exquisite thrill at the danger of being caught. The very possibility of being caught – and utterly humiliated in front of everyone he knew, the entire nation in fact - had him pitching a semi almost the whole day. He hadn’t been that way since his twenties.

  
After that, the President had allowed David to be his footstool while he talked on the phone with Chancellor Merkel. He had crouched on all fours for two hours, wearing nothing but a pair of red panties with a little heart cut out of the back.

  
Afterwards, he couldn’t believe it had happened. How had they gone from professional leaders of their respective countries to this? Why did he find it so gratifying to be used for Barack’s pleasure?

  
The car stopped. Moments later, he was in Obama’s jet, watching the houses below getting smaller and smaller.

 

The hotel lobby was average: a large room with a diamond chandelier, an elegant white marble staircase sweeping up from the fountain at its base - a fountain which was sculpted with glistening statues in the Greco-Roman style. It made sense; David was, he found, in Rome.

  
Another agent met him in the lobby and led him over to the lift. It was all a blur, and within a few minutes he was walking into the presidential suite.

  
It was more spacious than he was used to, the far wall was in fact a window and the room was furnished with Plumeboche sofas and a mahogany table. He walked over to the door adjoining the rooms of the suite – and peered through. A bedroom with a king-sized bed.

  
What was most apparent, was that David was alone. He closed the door and sat gently on the sofa, crossing one leg over the other, and placing interlocked hands on his knees. No, it would not do to be sitting. He jumped up again.

  
He suddenly found himself warm and began shrugging out of the blazer of his suit, but thought better of it. Why wasn’t the president here? David went about the room, his heart pounding. He put his fingers to his collar to loosen it. Why had Samantha bought him shirts with such tight collars?

  
It must have been half an hour before the he heard the keycard unlock the door.

  
David jumped up.

  
The President swept over to a chair and sat down across the room from David.

  
Barack looked at him, dark eyes irresistible, his suit fitting his broad shoulders perfectly and his posture elegant, sophisticated and utterly dominant. He leaned back in the chair as a hand carelessly stroked his tie.

  
David knew then why Obama had kept him waiting – to remind David of the most important lesson – everything was going to be on Obama’s terms. The thought of David sweating and nervous would only amuse him.

  
David stood before him, feeling like a schoolboy before the headmaster.

  
He lowered his eyes, respectfully; even had he been allowed to look, he wasn’t prepared for the intensity of Obama’s commanding gaze. David didn’t know where to look, so he looked at the carpet. H could feel Obama’s eyes razing over him, he was sure Obama could see the visible movement of his thin shirt as his heart pounded beneath it. The silence was unbearable.

  
“Mr President -”

  
“Shut up,” Obama commanded, “Kneel.”

  
David obeyed.

  
“Take off your suit.”

  
David shrugged out of his blazer and folded it neatly. He unbuckled his belt and awkwardly took off the trousers, still kneeling. He folded them too, feeling his face grow hot with colour.

  
He reached to loosen his tie.

  
“Leave it on,” the President ordered.

  
David took off the shirt underneath so that he wore nothing but his underpants and his tie. Suddenly he almost came to himself, realising that he, David Cameron, the Prime Minister, was kneeling before the President of the United States, dressed in nothing but his tie and underpants. He felt the blush deepen and spread down his neck.  
The President stood and walked over to David. “Hang those things up,” he ordered. David waddled on his knees to the wardrobe, and hung up his suit as best he could.

“Now take those off – ” he gestured to the clips on the trouser hanger, “and put them on your nipples.”

  
Obediently, David did as he was told. Obama’s open palm slapped him across the face. David looked around, bewildered. Hadn’t he done exactly as Obama ordered?

  
“That’s to remind you that you are not in control. Don’t think you can gain control and that good behaviour earns rewards and bad behaviour earns punishment, because I can punish whenever I feel like it.”

  
“Yes, Mr President. Thank you, Mr. President.”

  
Obama slapped him again, harder, first with one hand, then the other.

  
“Speak when I give you permission.”

  
David shivered. The President was so tall, so powerful. Though it was only two fleeting moments, he had felt the power of Obama’s hot, heavy hand against his face. He tried to ignore the hardening in his underwear.

  
The President reached into the pocket of his blazer and David trembled, but he only brought out a phone. He touched it once or twice and began a conversation. It was something about a ruling of the Supreme Court, but David couldn’t concentrate; Obama’s voice was too distracting. It was so low and masculine, the accent gorgeous. Perhaps the President might allow him to be his footstool again.

  
Only then, Obama reached down and unzipped his trousers and quickly unbuckled his belt. David felt himself throb. Obama snapped his fingers and gestured for David to take off his own underpants. He obeyed, leaving them around his ankles as Obama wished.

  
David looked back towards Obama only to see the President’s manhood bared to him, large and hard. David wanted to kiss it and worship it, but Obama grabbed his head and shoved it into his crotch so than he felt the hot, smooth hardness against his face. Obama’s fingers tightened in his hair and he pulled David’s face back once before bringing it forward again.

  
David took the hard length between his lips. He wasn’t sure what to do, but there was no need to do anything; Obama brought David’s head forward roughly with his hand and thrust powerfully with his hips into David’s mouth. The Prime Minister felt it hit the back of his throat and he gagged, tears prickling his eyes. David had never done this before. He had thought…he didn’t know what he had thought but he didn’t know it would be this, so soon.

  
How could he have let it get this far? There was no turning back now; he could never go to a summit without Obama knowing how David looked with his lips around his cock. He felt ashamed, degraded, and yet the worse he felt, the more his erection throbbed at such exquisite humiliation.

  
He was filled with shame, and yet wished for nothing else but being on his knees here before the President, his mouth filled with cock and knowing he was utterly powerless. He wanted Obama to use him, abuse him, take David’s body for his own pleasure any way he wanted.

  
He choked and gagged as Obama thrust into his mouth again and again, the tears making tracks down his face. He had to give himself over to it. He was not the Prime Minister. He was no longer a man. He was nothing. As he realised that, all his responsibility lifted from him, nothing mattered but pleasing the President.

  
He was nothing.

  
As Obama gave his final thrust, David swallowed everything he had to offer.

  
Nothing mattered now but pleasing his Master. He was so thankful that by allowing David to serve Him, he had given his life purpose. This new sensation - pleasing Him - was the most gratifying experience David had ever felt. It was better than he could ever have imagined, even though, or perhaps because he felt filthy and used. He was grateful that the President had given him this gift, given him purpose by allowing him to become a receptacle for His seed.

  
Then it was gone, David was empty, and Obama was zipping up his trousers. The taste lingered in David’s mouth, and suddenly he was the Prime Minister again. Just for a moment, he was a world leader who had just let another man fuck his mouth. It was a vicious cycle; the more ashamed he felt, the harder he got and the harder he was, the more degraded he felt. David longed to wipe his mouth and wipe away the tears but he had not been given permission to move.

  
Obama crossed the room and sat back on his chair. He was completely perfect.

  
He only wished he could be more use to Him. His footstool again perhaps.

  
“Mr President…please –”

  
“Speaking without permission. Get on all fours.”

  
David obeyed. He was so painfully hard, yet it was gratifying not to touch himself, to live with this suffering in order to please his Master instead.

  
“Go over to the desk drawer.”

David crawled over.

  
“Top drawer, pull it out. Pour the contents out on the floor.”

  
David did so and looked. There were condoms, lubricant and various objects. He realised then…

  
“You know what to do.”

  
David picked up the Sharpie and went for the lubricant.

  
“Ah-ah. You can take that without.”

  
David took a breath and put the Sharpie to his entrance. At the feel of an object nudging him there, his muscles clamped down. He had never before taken anything inside him this way. He had never been penetrated at all until moments ago. He felt himself blush again. It was better to think not of that, but pleasing the President, and following His every order.

  
David pressed it into him, feeling it breach the pucker of his entrance. He couldn’t help it; his body reacted and clenched down on the Sharpie.

  
He looked over at the President, knowing his face and neck would be pink, knowing how pathetic he would look: naked but for his tie, underwear around his ankles, Sharpie sticking out of his ass and eyes stinging with tears.

  
Obama raised an arm and draped it over the back of the chair, his smile showing off perfect white teeth. “Next,” he commanded.

  
David’s heart swelled. The President was amused. He had done well.

  
David picked up the next largest object, a candle.

  
“You can take more than that.”

  
David put it down and picked up the cucumber.

  
He coated in in lubricant and entered it into him. It was difficult, and he sobbed as he did so, having to use both hands so that his face was on the carpet and his buttocks were up in the air. Finally, a good length of it was inside him, cold and sore, stretching and humiliating him.

  
“What do you say?” Obama prompted.

  
“Th-thank you, Mr President,” David sobbed.

  
Suddenly, Obama pulled out his phone, and David’s heart spasmed in panic. He heard the camera shutter. He moved forward, forgetting the cucumber for a moment, forgetting his underpants tangled around his ankle and tied to dive forward, making Obama laugh as he snapped more photos.

  
“Mr President please...if anyone ever found out…”

  
“Do you think I don’t know what’s best for you?”

  
“N-no, Mr President.”

  
“And you submit yourself fully to me?”

  
“Yes, Mr President.”

  
After all, he was nothing, and he was grateful for any time Obama spent with him, even if it was only to trample him into the ground like the pink and flabby little worm he was.  
“Then you understand that I have to punish you for that.”

  
Obama took off his belt and made David lie across his lap. He knew his hardness was poking into Obama’s leg and for a moment he wished he could control himself, but he had no control; he had given it over entirely to Obama and it was everything he could have hoped for.

  
The belt came down on his already abused buttocks, the hole still stuffed with the cucumber. But it felt so good to be across this man’s lap feeling His warmth and being close to His broad chest and feeling His strength each time he brought the belt down. But knowing he loved it only made David more humiliated; he knew he should be a Real Man, like Barack, instead of a snivelling creature crying naked across his lap.

The belt came down a final time.

  
“Let’s see how much you can take,” the President said. “If you do well I might let you touch my cock again.”

  
David throbbed at the thought.

  
“Oh yes, Mr President, please…”

  
Obama slapped him.

  
Barack pulled the cucumber out roughly and looked around the room. He turned over a chair and snapped off the thick, wooden chair leg, narrow and one end and flaring out as thick as an arm.

  
“No, Mr President, please….I can’t take that much.”

  
Obama slapped him across the face.

  
“I beg you, Mr President…”

  
Obama hit him so hard across the buttocks that he silenced him but for a whimper. He watched, aroused, as Obama applied lube to the chair leg. He could try to get away, but then when the President caught him, he would only be rougher with him. At least if he obeyed, he might – might – be gentle.

  
Obama turned him around and pushed his head down. He made David put his hands at the back of his neck, face down, ass up. And slowly Obama started to slide the chair leg into David’s near-virgin hole.

  
Tears came to his eyes with the pain. He felt as if he was being torn into two. Just when he thought Obama wouldn’t make him take anymore, he felt another push and let out another choked sob as Obama took over his body entirely.

  
It was so painful, and yet so sweet.

  
And then it was gone and he couldn’t see properly because his eyes were blurred with tears, and he couldn’t concentrate on anything except the soreness in his ass.  
Then the President’s hand was at the back of his neck and he was being bent over the table and Obama’s warm, hard length was sliding into the soreness of his ass. It ought to have been easier after the chair leg, but it wasn’t – the other objects had been still at least, and he was already sore when Obama slammed into him the first time.

  
The pain and pleasure were so intense, each heightening the other.

  
The President pounded David relentlessly, holding him down. David sobbed, his whole body shuddering as Obama drove into him again and again. Then Obama pulled David up so that he had to support himself on his hands.

  
He was so hard, so painfully hard…if he could only reach down and touch….

  
Obama snatched his hand away and pinned it roughly behind his back.

  
“You exist only for my pleasure,” he reminded him.

  
“Yes, Mr President,” David moaned, and the president continued to fill him again and again. Use me…use me ...

  
He couldn’t take it, he was going to explode…

Then with a final powerful thrust, Obama finished inside him and pushed David forward onto the bed.

David turned around, the President’s semen running down his thighs.

Obama was doing up his belt and picking up his keycard.

“Y-you’re leaving?” David asked Barack.

“My men will take you to the airport. The room’s paid for. Stay if you want.”

And then he was gone; he had left David lying there battered, humiliated and unfulfilled, his buttocks red from the belting. His erection was still so hard, yet Obama’s semen

was running down his thighs.

A wave of shame came over him…as if what had happened wasn’t enough…the way Obama had just left, just used him and discarded him made him feel utterly worthless.

David reached down at last, grasped his hardness, and masturbated furiously.


End file.
